Radix
by awaylaughing
Summary: All things have a beginning. This is the story of one such thing, the story of how four nations came to love one another. FACE, multiple other pairings. Warnings inside.
1. Prologue

**Title:** Radix

**Summary:** All things have a beginning, this is the story of how four nations came to love one another.

**Pairings:** F/A/C/E, Netherlands/Canada, Scotland/France, sort-of Russia/America/Canada

Warnings: Swearing, possibly triggering material, references to rape, paedophilia (no actual paedophilia, just to be clear)

**Author's notes:** So this is a pre-existing but unfinished story on the kink_meme, I've decided to pretty much overhaul it from chapter 5 onward, and have deleted several entirely. I'll be posting the pre-existing chapters one at a time every Sunday evening as I go through and edit them. Any questions or concerns PM or review, and for those of you who may end up figuring out which other fills I've been a bad author to and have been neglecting, feel free to ask if I'm writing them. Then feel free to yell at me via PM to go update them. ;D

/

The beginning is hard to pinpoint. Francis and Arthur come together again and again, an unstoppable force and an unmovable object crashing together against one another in constant, bloody clashes.

As they get older, the constant struggles cause fissures and cracks, and they start to give. They don't give _in_, but they allow for some leeway. No more do they grind the others face in the muck when one falls, but rather they give him the chance to pick himself up. _Then_ they fight.

These gentler version of themselves, however, take a very long time, and that is not the beginning, so it is not where we'll start.

If the two men are feeling incredibly honest with one another, and they seldom are, it starts, just as so much does, with Rome.

Arthur can clearly remember the empire's arrival, even when so many other aspects of that time are irrevocably lost. Arthur remember the exotic man, with his dark skin and flashing eyes, and he remembers the instincts, finely tuned despite youth and callowness, which tell him danger is at hand. This is why, when Rome reaches his shore, smile flashing like a wolf, Arthur runs, his tiny legs carrying him as far as they can.

It is futile, of course. Rome's legs are longer and when Arthur grows tired and rests, the Empire catches up. Arthur, Britannia, no Albion, does not submit however. He fights, long and hard and unyielding, until Rome, frustrated with his surliness, builds a wall, and separates him from Caledonia. Hibernia, or Érie as they used to call him, is more unreachable than ever, across that thin strip of water. Cymyr is useless, holed up in his territory, angry and wary of this foreign monster in the shape of a nation.

The wall is a barrier, it keeps him away from the one person who told him to keep fighting, and so, slowly, Britannia gives, but Arthur does not. Arthur kicks and screams and bites and scratches whenever Rome tries to bed him. Arthur takes the beatings, gives as good as he gets, and scoffs inwardly when a barely in control Rome tries to goad him into bed willingly.

Rome tells stories of another young nation who yields as easily as sand. He tries desperately to make this savage little island nation love him, or at least lust for him the way others do, but Arthur refuses. Arthur is not jealous of the way Rome describes his other province, the one who lives across the waves, the one who Arthur can see from his white cliffs. Instead, he grows contemptuous of Rome's golden child, and in his mind he dubs him nothing more than a silly little whore.

This is where it begins, because while Arthur is sitting in his stone fortress, in one corner of the room while Rome stands poised in another, Francis is also with Rome.

Francis was not Gaul, a mistake many make. He _was_, in fact, Roman-Gaul. It is a fuzzy distinction, but Francis knows it well. Francis's childhood is not a free one, but rather one spent under the hand of an empire. He can vaguely recall his mother, a wild, happy woman with streaming blonde hair and flashy blue eyes, but mostly he remembers Rome. Unlike Arthur, Francis does not fight, or at least he does not fight with the same enthusiasm, and he certainly does not deny Rome in the bedroom.

Francis is willing, after a while, to let Rome creep into his room, is willing to let Rome kiss and touch and almost anything else. He tells himself he relishes the attention, that it is better than being alone, or worse, being his mother, lost to the annals of history. So Francis is as docile as he can stand to be, and he listens on the nights Rome is feeling violent and restless, as the empire rants.

Rome rants about the nation across the waves, the one with those magnificent white cliffs which call to some basic part of Francis. Rome rants about the little island, cursing his impertinence, his feisty behaviour, his zest. And Francis realizes that while Rome is only vaguely interested in this Britannia, he is dangerously infatuated with the nameless green eyed boy.

So while Arthur is growing contemptuous, Francis is growing bitter. Bitter of how much Rome wants him, but even more bitter about the other boys ability to fight, to resist again and again, until eventually even Rome leaves his island altogether. As the two nations grow and Rome dies and Arthur gains and loses a hero and Francis gains his first kings, the infatuation which will last far, far into the future is born.

That is how the foundation is built.


	2. Chapter 1

**Summary:** All things have a beginning, this is the story of how four nations came to love one another.

**Pairings:** F/A/C/E, Netherlands/Canada, Scotland/France, sort-of Russia/America/Canada and so many more I haven't written yet.

**Warnings:** Porn. _Amature_ porn, from when I was a porn virgin. Ironic, I know.

**Author's notes:** Here's your Sunday update, just like I promised. As before, this is not new info, really, but I actually _have_ changed things in these chapters, just a heads up. So for those who plan on picking up where I left off - you may have to restart. I've actually cut characters out of entire chapters, added chapters, changed timelines etc. And it is all so much better now. I promise. So, any comments, questions or concerns either review here or PM me. And just know, I cherish all of you my lovely readers, even those of you who possibly don't favourite/put this on alert/review. :)

/

The second phase is a little faster and not so extravagant. It starts in an attempt to control a rising super power, one that is so bright and full of new shiny ideas about the future that several of the European countries are left wondering if he's perhaps a bit touched in the head.

The United States of America has that effect on people.

It is in Paris, in the year 1919 when the strange little relationship France and England have, as well as the one Arthur and Francis share. Even nations can keep their private lives somewhat separate after all, is expounded upon. It is a rather lonely night, and despite how bone weary they are, Francis and Arthur reach a silent agreement. When they pass Francis' room Francis does not enter, but follows Arthur. France may be the country of love but Clemenceau is not an open minded man, Neither, of course, is Lloyd George but the Brit at least has the good sense to let nations be nations.

As they enter Arthur's rooms, the day's stresses and discomforts roll away, and wordlessly the two men disrobe. There is no need for violence today, they've had enough over the last four years. They do not speak either, scared to ruin this delicate peace they have somehow carved out of the bloodiest war they have ever seen.

It has been over a thousand years since the two nations met, and by now the two can read one another the way the pope can read the bible. So for tonight, Arthur takes the lead. He understands Francis is stressed, being the host nation to the largest peace conferences in history, and trying to rebuild at the same time.

The kiss is soft, softer than either can remember, and it's nice, comforting. Francis sighs into it quietly, and the tiny puff of air tickles Arthur's lips, making them quirk up. The kiss is slow and languid, mouths opening in a lazy fashion, and tongues not so much duelling as caressing one another. It continues on far longer than it usually does, Arthur's hands gently wrapped in Francis' hair, and Francis' hands on Arthur's sides. Before the kiss could progress into open open mouthed kisses on a bared neck, or the hands could wander down however, there was a knock.

In the utter silence of the room, the knock may has well have been a bomb going off, and the two nations jump slightly, looking aggravated. Finally, Francis speaks, "it could be one of your colonies, or perhaps even one of your dominions."

Arthur makes an annoyed sound, "well," he says shortly, heavy brows furrowed, "they can handle themselves", but even as he says this he's wrapping a sheet around his waist and heading for the door. Francis follows suite, though he sits on the bed, and he's a little less invested on whether or not the sheet actually covers him.

It is not any member of the current British empire at the door, but rather America. Arthur is entirely too shocked to even close the door on the poor boys face, because he looks terrible. His eyes are puffy from lack of sleep and he has a noticeable slump to usually upright posture. The boy is looking down, but he catches sight of France sitting on the edge of England's bed, rather obviously naked and flushes. He murmurs something that sounds like, "I'm sorry, shouldn't be bothering you". He turns to leave, and Arthur, still bitter after all these years is almost ready to let him.

Francis is not. "Do not be silly dear boy," Francis coos, catching both the English speaking nations off guard, "come in, you look absolutely terrible."

Eyes flicking over to Arthur, who simply opens the door more with as much dignity one can muster when allowing one's prodigal son into the room to talk to your naked on again off again lover. America nervously shuffles in, biting his lip in a manner so entirely not his that Arthur has to pause. Francis pats the bed next to him, even making sure the sheet is doing it's job, and America gratefully sinks down. Arthur wordlessly sits next to him, so that the younger nations is wedged between the older two.

America's silent for a moment, but once he speaks, he doesn't stop. "I'm sorry for bothering you it's just no one else here would understand. I mean, Wilson is doing a great job but at the same time...my people are divided and it is giving me a major head ache and now we have House whose been making deals behind my, our, backs, and I'm just so..." he trails off and Arthur and Francis share a look.

"Lonely?" Francis offers gently rubbing a hand down the boy's spine. America worries his lip again for a moment and then sobs, throwing himself in the slimmer nation. Francis sighs and just wraps his arms around the boy as he cries, Arthur looks uneasy for a moment, before he too embraces his former colony.

They stay like that for who knows how long, until America, true to his brash, forward self, tilts his head up and kisses Francis full on the mouth. It is not like kissing Arthur, Francis muses. Arthur is always confident and always looking to be in control. America, however, seems nervous. Of what, Francis can't be sure, but he suspects it is rejection the boy is so scared of. Or, Francis considers, perhaps hurting someone, the boy is very well intentioned. For what little good it does, they are the pavement for the road to Hell, after all.

As if coming to his senses, America pulls back so quickly he collides with Arthur's nose, prompting him to actually hurl himself from the bed. He stumbles away from them, face flushed with shame and eyes quickly becoming wet again, "I am so sorry, I am sorry, I don't know what I was-"

Arthur cuts him off, "hush lad," he says firmly, approaching the boy as one would a scared animal.

"Yes," Francis says, soothing, "calme-toi, it is fine."

America sniffles and shakes his head, "no, no no! It's not fine! I mean, you two are, well, and I'm, I'm not, I mean..." whatever he's trying to say dies off in a gasp, and Francis sees the boy is panicking.

"Alfred," he tries, and the other nation freezes. No one, or at least no other nation, has called him Alfred since 1813, not since he and Canada had stopped speaking, and to hear someone call him by his name is more than Alfred can take. Before he can even speak, Alfred is in tears again, crumbling onto a heap on the floor. Someone, probably England, hoists him up and brings him over to the bed.

For the first time in what feels like forever, Alfred is being held, and it feels so good, so far beyond anything else, that once he stops crying, he becomes acutely aware of how warm France is at his back, and of how strong England's arms are. It doesn't take long for Alfred to find himself reacting in a rather embarrassing way.

As his sniffles die down, Alfred tries to wriggle away, feeling his problem growing, and he flushes in horror when he brushes against Arthur. To his surprise, Arthur does not scowl at him or push him off the bed, but instead gently grabs his chin, locking eyes with him. "Is this okay lad?" the empire asks, his amazingly green eyes boring into Alfred's clear blue. Trembling, Alfred nods, his nose still a light pink – though who knows what Wilson would have thought, never mind Clemenceau and Lloyd George.

After that, Alfred just sort of loses himself. He is aware of Arthur's lips on his, of Francis mouthing his neck and shoulders, and of both their hands lightly tracing patterns across his sides and stomach and legs.

They are both excruciatingly gentle, moving slowly, so slowly, that by the time one of them deigns to touch his painfully hard arousal, Alfred is ready to sob. In fact, he does, and instantly Francis' hands are smoothing down his hair, and he is sucking on Alfred's ear. Arthur, on the other hand, is slowly moving his hand up, and down, up, and down, and Alfred comes undone with a whimper of pleasure. Arthur chuckles a bit at that, and Alfred can't help but flash him a lazy grin. The grin falters and Arthur's chuckles turn into a soft moan when Francis lures the semen covered digits into his mouth.

Once he deems them suitably clean Francis lets them slide out, and Arthur gives him a look which promises 'later'. Francis just grins wickedly, and gestures to the younger nation between them, whose eyes are wide with wonder, his cock half hard already.

Arthur turns his attention to the boy, and, as if asking permission, he kisses the smooth thigh. In response, Alfred nods, though he looks a bit apprehensive. Arthur, seeing this, is gentle. He scoops a bit of the boys spent semen into his hand, coating his already damp digits, never taking his eyes off Alfred's face.

Slowly, one finger circle's Alfred's opening, before pushing in slowly, pausing once it is in far enough. Alfred wiggles slightly in response, and Francis chuckles at the boy before kissing him hard on the mouth, his tongue swiping along the others lower lip, asking for entrance, and Alfred gives it when Arthur pushes a second finger, causing him to gasp.

The fingers are strange, pushing in and out, before twitching slightly and pushing against a little bundle which makes Alfred's whole body twitch in delight. After that, a third finger is added, and Alfred becomes aware of exactly how much larger Arthur's cock is than those three fingers when the other nation is poised to enter Alfred.

For Arthur, when he pushes in, he is a little shocked. Alfred is so warm, hot even, and he is tight enough to indicate to the other nation he either hasn't done this lately, or ever. The thought worries him, as he trembles there, holding himself, with Alfred trembling just as much, his mouth disconnected from Francis', who is gently stroking the side of his neck and shoulder.

Finally, finally, Alfred tells him to move, and Arthur pulls out, before pushing back in, slowly, almost teasingly. It's maddening for the both of them, and before long they're shaking apart, with Alfred giving little sighs and whimpers every time Arthur successfully finds his prostate.

Once Francis thinks Alfred is ready, he turns the boy's face to look at him. Knowing what the Frenchman wants, Alfred nuzzles his stomach with his nose, before opening his mouth for the rigid length in front of him.

After that, the three are mostly silent. Arthur has never been loud in bed, neither has Francis. Th two aren't positive about Alfred, as his mouth is a little busy, but they suspect Alfred is fairly quiet too. So, as Arthur thrusts and Alfred licks clumsily at Francis' arousal, they are able to drift and shake away from the horrors of war and the stresses of clean up, until Alfred comes with what feels like a sob to Francis, and makes him think that the boy needs a bit more stimulation in his life.

Arthur and Francis only make a few more shallow thrust each before they finish, and Francis is a bit stunned when Alfred swallows, though he chooses not to mention it. Seeing that the other two are exhausted, Francis goes into the adjacent bathroom, wetting a cloth, when he realizes something. They never shut the door.

Rushing back out, Francis finds it closed, and puzzles over the fact, before shrugging it off and cleaning himself and his lovers, two now, he thinks smugly, off. He doesn't mention the open now closed door, to either of them, and nobody noticed the quiet blond nation who shut it for them just moments before.


	3. Chapter 2

**Author's Notes - **Nothing new on this front - exams are all done (yeah!), this part underwent a huge amount of editing (man, you should have seen the tense shifts before - truly ghastly). If you feel so inclined, drop me a line to say if you've noticed an improvement (previous readers) or if you're enjoying it so far (new previous readers).

/

After the peace talks, Alfred and Arthur and Francis all go their separate ways. In fact, Alfred has very little to do with the older nations, instead, he turns his attention to a different relation, one both closer and further away.

Alfred F. Jones had an almost unnatural dislike for being called "wrong" about any, even more so than Arthur or Yao. It often got to the point where, if he did something others did not agree with, he would finish it up and then deny its existence. Alfred had learned, however, that you cannot deny the existence of another being before something goes horribly wrong. Which is how the young nation realizes one fine day on the ship back to the Americas that he and his brother had not talked in a little over a century.

Even in Paris the two hadn't spoken directly to one another. Alfred had been busy with the treaties and the League of nations, and Matthew, well to be honest something had looked incredibly off with Matthew.

He had looked so withdrawn, almost like the shell shocked soldiers Alfred was desperately tired of seeing. He had been hunched over, his shoulders slumped and his head bowed to the point he had look a foot shorter than his brother, and not the scant millimetres Alfred suspected was the true difference. It was disturbing, to say the least, to see no shred of Matthew who was once a vibrant child, the Matthew who used to lose pairs of shoes like dog lost hair.

And so, Alfred F. Jones decided that it would be an excellent idea to seek out his brother on the ship where neither of them could run away. Suffice to say, the exchange did not end well. Matthew had not been receptive to Alfred's attention, though he had not been openly hostile. Instead, Matthew had, Alfred must admit, hidden rather artfully behind extremely proper, vague and impersonal speech. While no doubt this had been an attempt on Canada's behalf to dissuade America's new found interest, perhaps for fear of another Manifest Destiny scheme, it had the opposite effect.

Feeling snubbed, Alfred promptly decided that, come hell or high water, Matthew Williams and Canada alike would come to enjoy his company. This is how the final stage in creating that which in the future would be a strangely functional foursome came to pass.

First, however, there was an interlude.

/

War had taken its toll on everyone involved. France was busy finding his dead and rebuilding, England was trying to stabilize his economy, America was doing much better economically, but politically there was an up roar. Canada, on the other hand, was suffering from thorough disillusionment. The bitter feelings towards the British had spread like a plague through all the colonies who had stayed loyal to the empire for so long, only to find their young men, father, brothers, sons, husband, all of them, thrown away with no regard for their lives.

All the nations were suffering in some way, and all of them couldn't help but think of better times.

Francis' time with Matthew had been largely pleasant. The child had been strangely docile in comparison to the people of his land, and the temper tantrums which marked children and nations alike at his age were few and far between. The one issue they did have, of course, was one Francis had felt, was entirely in Matthew's head.

The boy had constantly asked questions about _before _he made inquiries revolving largely around his mother. Francis understood that the child did not represent the natives of this land, however he still seemed to have an affinity for them.

Nonetheless, questions about his heritage always made Francis irrationally angry, and even more jealous.

/

"Qu'est-ce que tu faits?" The blond man asks, watching as a small, almost too small, child digs into the silty land.

The child doesn't pause in his task, his head bent and eyebrows furrowed in concentration as he responds, "je la cherches."

The reply bemuses the Frenchman, making him quirk an elegant eyebrow, "c'est-ce qui que tu cherches?"

The little boy is silent for a moment, his actions coming to a halt and he rocks on his heels to look up at his taller, older counterpart, "ma maman."

At that, Francis goes silent. He feels, despite how irrational it is, a strange, angry jealousy rearing up inside of him, curling in his belly. Francis does not appreciate Matthew's, no Canada's attempts to find the savage he replaced. So taken off guard is he, that he doesn't respond. Instead, he turns stiffly on his heel and heads back to the small little cabin, ignoring the confused look the child-nation sends him.

When the child comes in later, sniffling softly, Francis, feeling a little vengeful, does not reach out to sooth his tears, nor does he even turn around. Matthew must learn the loss of these...people, is not something to mourn, Francis refuses to entertain the idea, refuses to encourage this behaviour.

Years later, Francis will add this to his list of regrets.

/

That memory comes to Francis on a lovely May morning in 1922 after he receives a message from Alfred. Alfred, as he is wont to do, chatters mindlessly, even on paper, on about his government and the weather, and, much more to Francis' interests, about Matthew. From what Francis is able to gather, Matthew has been strangely distant in communications with just about everyone.

This strikes Arthur and himself as strange, the boy has always been affable, despite having a mind bogglingly hostile environment, filled with large deadly things and plagued with harsh winters and short summers.

Francis, caught off guard by the issue and by his most disliked memory of Matthew, though not of himself, he's done worse, sends a telegram back to Alfred telling him patience is key, and little else. For the next while, Francis is caught up in revelry, something to take his mind off current day issues.

Francis recalls past trysts, obviously not all of which are Arthur, and two in particular stand out in light of the current 'Matthew crisis' as the silly American calls it.

/

Francis was extremely annoyed with Arthur, not England, Arthur, when his court received a messenger from Scotland, asking for help in a rebellion. Francis did not even have to cajole his king to help, the man wanted nothing more than to bring England off his high horse. After all, the island nation was proving to be a bit of a pest, and no one wanted the upstart to become important.

Francis, not particularly interested in actually being in Scotland, was delighted when the man came to him. He was, he would admit in later years, completely caught off guard, he had been expecting another Arthur. That was not what he got. Duncan Kirkland was taller than his youngest sibling, with wiry red hair and a chest a bear would envy. They did however, share arguably the families most telling physical traits. Firstly, there were the eyebrows. Year of fighting with Arthur had prepared him for those at the very least, though they seemed almost more alive on the Scot than they did even on the Brit. Secondly, were the eyes, the bright, unforgiving green which was without a doubt absolutely beautiful.

The two nations were easily and quickly acquainted. Francis had no complaints, they were separate enough to not annoy one another, and when they were together, the sex was marvellous. The Scot was not unpractised.

It all went very well until one hazy night, after Francis had had another fight with Arthur. This fight had been dirtier and more personal than most, and it left the Frenchman feeling extremely angry and perhaps just a touch upset. Of course, Duncan had been visiting, which was probably what started the fight, so Francis had decided to just bury the unpleasant memory under a better one.

It did not go exactly according to plan, because Francis was very drunk, and as he reached his finishing point, panting harshly as Duncan virtually pounded in and out of him, it was not Duncan's name he screamed.

Duncan had looked absolutely shocked when his lover yelled out his brother's name, of all things during his climax. The two went to their separate beds, and in the morning Duncan was headed back to Scotland.

Francis saw him off from the fort, and he wasn't sure whether to laugh or to weep, so he did neither.

/

While Arthur insists that Francis is about as introspective as a scone, Francis knows this is untrue. Francis has had rulers who revolutionized writing systems, back when Arthur was still playing with sticks in the sand. He has had poets and philosophers whose legacies have survived centuries when so many other names and faces have been forgotten. So Francis manages to glean some advice from his past discretion.

He doesn't think Alfred would take well to being told Matthew doesn't trust Alfred to not annex him, so he tells Alfred to wait. He has no delusions of Alfred following that advice, but c'est la vie. He does, however, send a slightly more detailed telegram to Arthur.

/

When Arthur gets the telegram from Francis on a fine morning in May, he's surprised. They've both been busy with restoration, Francis' more so, and neither have seen or spoken or bothered to contact one another for almost the full three years since Paris.

_Mon Cher, _

_I hope this is finding you in good health. I'm aware Alfred has probably sent you a telegram regarding mon petit Matthieu, I have diagnosed the problem, he is, I believe, frightened. I believe he is scared of being overwhelmed and forgotten by his brother. I think we need to rectify this immediately, do you think you can call him to Londre?_

_Merci et je t'aime,_

_ Francis_

For a brief moment Arthur is ready to brush the idea off. It is none of his concern, Matthew is his own nation now and can deal with his own problems. He's not entirely heartless though so some three weeks later, when he's had the time to sit down and think it over, he replies.

_Frog, _

_You know what my health is like, don't be snide. I did, indeed, receive the ramblings that moron calls a telegram. Matthew is none of your concern, but I've been meaning to see him anyhow. _

_And it is spelt London, bloody poof._

_ Arthur._

_ Member of Her Majesty's Retinue_

_ United Kingdom of Great Britain _

/

Alfred, if he were ever to admit to a failing, would have to say it is impatience. He likes results, and he likes them straight away. This is why, when he receives a telegram from Francis telling him to be patient, he's caught a little off guard. Nonetheless, he follows the advice. Mostly.

Instead of his earlier ambushes he sends little notes and letters and telegrams. The topics range from new songs to politics to their childhood. By the end of 1925 Alfred feels that he is making good progress.

And then 1929 happens.


	4. Chapter 3

**Summary:** All things have a beginning, this is the story of how four nations came to love one another.

**Pairings:** F/A/C/E, Netherlands/Canada, Scotland/France, sort-of Russia/America/Canada and so many more I haven't written yet**.**

**Author's notes:** Now for what we've all been waiting for, all 661 words of it. I've not got much to say, my attentions have wandered to other fandoms and (more importantly) my own original works. Radix needs such cleaning up too that it's sort of disheartening. At any rate, don't own anything, reviews are crack, feel free to PM me any time and so on and so forth.

* * *

The 29th of October is a Tuesday. A day of the week gone horribly wrong.

The stock markets doesn't so much crash as disintegrate before the eyes of the world. People lose houses and jobs, and suddenly there is no time to talk to Matthew. They, and all of Europe, are running around trying to find ways to fix things, and largely it's all very futile and disheartening. People burning money to fuel their houses because the bills are nothing but paper.

Alfred remembers, even almost a century later, burning oranges while women and children, his children, starved. He remembers people sleeping in huts, or on benches, he remembers nothing to eat, the constant starvation and headaches. And so, during the thirties, Alfred simply doesn't have time for Matthew, who in turn doesn't have time for him.

The depression doesn't last for ever, Alfred jokes years later that all it took was a mass slaughter to boost his economy, and Francis and Arthur chuckle a bit, though it's only funny because the only other option is depression.

And what a depression it would be.

/

Alfred watches as another body falls from the top of one of New York's numerous banks with a startling lack of emotion. People mill around in a sort of numb semi-panic, waiting for the authorities to come take the body away. "Poor thing," it's an older man who speaks, voice rough with age, face lined with so many wrinkles Alfred thinks he could make a map of it. "Young," he shakes his head, "sometimes I think the war was less painful than this." Without thinking Alfred nods.

"Yeah," he says distantly and the man cocks his head.

"And I suppose you'd know?"

Alfred cringes, realizing his mistake. "I was infantry," he says a little defensively, "I'm older than I look."

The man eyes him, but appears to decide he's not lying. "Then you know what I mean." Alfred nods once, decisive and the man heaves a sigh.

"Well," he says quietly, "at least my ol' May isn't going hungry anymore." It's said with so much resignation and grief that Alfred can only nod, can offer no condolences, cannot speak around the lump in his throat. With that the man shuffles off, and Alfred bows his head and blinks back tears.

/

Arthur rubs his eyes with the heels of his palms and lets out a slow breath, smoke filtering past his lips. Not looking up he reaches for a whiskey bottle and a shot glass, only to skip the glass altogether. Rain pounds the glass of his office and he's so drunk he doesn't even feel the burn as it slides down his throat. "How did this happen?" he asks the empty chair across from him. London is a mess of the homeless and hungry, his government flailing to implement damage control. His telegraphs from Alfred tell an even sorrier tale across the Atlantic, food shortages due to drought stripping the heartlands of America down to nothing. The Dustbowl.

Matthew has sent only one telegraph in the last year, but it's enough.

/

Francis chews at his lip thoughtfully as he stares across the ocean toward England, his cigarette dangling from his lips. The streets around him are by and large empty, people sequestered in doors to avoid the steady drizzle. Everything has gone to pot, his thinks. The war and all its deaths, now, one by one the other nations' economies are crashing and crashing hard. He takes a deep drag and plucks the cigarette out so he can release the smoke, watching it disappear into the grey skies. He's not seen any real trouble yet. His people and government are content, at least but a knot rests below Francis' breast bone.

No matter what anyone says the twenties did not heal Europe, it is neither whole nor hale. It is a festering wound, and this, he thinks, is just part of a rising fever.


End file.
